Standing On The Edge Of Time
by whatthefoucault
Summary: Howard, Vince, elephants in rooms, Scandinavia, and a classic adult contemporary song.


**Disclaimer**: Still don't own 'em. Surprise, surprise.

**A/N**: This came about basically because I needed to know exactly what went down over that two weeks where Howard was in Denmark in my little slashy universe. So I wrote this over the weekend and now I can get on with the things I'm actually supposed to be writing, yippee! So yeah, this is technically within the same fictional universe as my other Howincey writings, but can be taken separately without losing, you know, sense.

If you love someone, let them go, or so the saying said. Vince Noir insisted that this was, quite plainly, bullshit. If you love someone, hold on for dear life and never ever once let them forget how much they matter. Why _this_ was not printed on greeting cards was beyond him.

Of course, it took an utter fucking disaster for him to learn that this was true.

It had been nearly two weeks since Howard (Moon that is, Vince's long time best mate, flatmate, and most recently, almost - but not quite - his massive gayist love) had left for Denmark to seek his cinematic fortune with Jërkfäce Maasturbaator, leaving Vince with nothing but an almost immediately failed career as a drainpipe frontman.

Without Howard, Vince felt like there was a hole in his heart. A trumpet-shaped hole.

He tried plugging it with flirtinis, with vintage hand-embroidered purple snakeskin cowboy boots, with endless packets of chocolate buttons. He tried plugging it by hanging out with the new kid at the Nabootique, but Vince was pretty sure his moustache wasn't even real, and he had this annoying tendency of ducking and flinching uselessly when Vince tried to chuck satsumas at him, and when Vince suggested they crimp, he produced a pair of pliers. He tried plugging it by sleeping with Howard's Zooniverse jacket draped over his crumpled and lonesome form, letting the scent of tea and old record albums and pipe tobacco that still lingered there allow him to imagine that Howard was there, but when he awoke to an empty room, devoid of the familiar sounds of Howard's morning jazz trance, he felt even emptier than before. All the colours in his world had faded like rainsoaked newspapers left out in a gutter in the sun.

Naboo cringed inwardly. Vince was listening to _that song_ again. Vince listened to that song every day, on repeat, for the better part of an hour. Admittedly, it would not be so bad if Vince did not insist on singing along. Admittedly, even that would not be so bad if Vince could sing without also simultaneously, loudly weeping.

"Oh Howard, you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away, oh Howaaaaaaaaaaard," came the atonal sobs from Vince's bedroom. Naboo flopped down on the couch beside Bollo, who handed him two tufts of cotton wool. He stuffed the absorbent little clouds in his ears, and the two watched Peacock Dreams on mute while the muffled strains of the paraphrased Barry Manilow classic continued to filter through the flat.

Of course, Howard was sure the whole debacle had begun the night of his ill-fated birthday party. On second thought, he knew it had begun long before. Only then, on that moonlit roof and under threat of decapitation did everything come to its crisis, and that thing he had so often dreamed about - at breakfast, at work in the quiet of the afternoon, at night times when his thoughts would betray him and his hand would slip surreptitiously beneath the bedclothes and have its cheeky way with him - that _thing_ happened. Vince had unceremoniously crashed through that physical boundary that had separated them for so long, and kissed him.

It was almost over by the time Howard had realized what was happening, but what he remembered was the tenderness with which Vince's fingers had cradled the back of his neck and stroked his sideburns, and how he hadn't quite known what to do with his hands, and how it had felt like an avalanche fizzing out from his belly and setting off firecrackers inside his head. And how Vince had totally let him get his tongue in.

(Plus how he was suddenly glad of the fact that his corduroys were on the loose-fitting side, or the ardent nature of his affections might have been a touch _too_ evident.)

But then it was over, and everything was normal again. Or rather, it wasn't normal at all, but if Vince seemed bound and determined to ignore the elephant waving big gay neon signs in the corner of their room and act like no boundaries had been transcended and no switches flipped, Howard would just have to wait. But when Jüüüüüüüüürgen Haabermaaster offered Howard an acting opportunity, he wondered if maybe it wouldn't be easier for the both of them if he just removed himself from the big gay equation altogether.

Except that everything was wrong in Denmark, his flat too clean and bright, his flatmate was too blonde and woke before dawn every day and spent ten minutes or less in the bathroom every morning and only owned two CDs (by Phil Collins and Sting, respectively), and his refrigerator was all cottage cheese and Ryvita and no watermelon bubblegum or cherry Vimto.

(Not to mention the fact that he was working eighteen-hour days in a sweaty crab suit playing the spirit of trapped flatulence.)

Everything was wrong because Vince was not there. So after two weeks, Howard packed his bags, and booked passage on a freighter back to London.

Vince was still laughing as he led Howard upstairs, dragging his heavy baggage behind him.

"Howard, you bufflehead," he said, rolling his eyes. "Could've told you that director was full of shit. His eyes were well shifty."

"Yep," sighed Howard, dropping his bags by his bed, "it's good to be home."

Vince quietly shut the bedroom door behind them before launching into Howard, sending them both flying onto Howard's tweed-scented bedsheets.

"Vince, what - " Howard began, but stopped, too winded and too bewildered from the impact of Vince crashing into him to form words.

"Never, ever, ever, ever fucking leave again," whispered Vince, his face buried in Howard's shoulder, "you have to promise."

"Promise," whispered Howard, . He would never dream of leaving. Life without Vince had left a peacock-shaped hole in his heart.

Here, it turned out - in this little bedroom in this little flat above this little shop, smooshed into his mattress with Vince clinging to him desperately - was precisely where he belonged, and where he wanted to be. His only regret was that it had taken an utter fucking disaster for him to learn that this was true. Now that he was back, he knew for certain that he could never leave again.

(Not that he had anything else on anyway.)


End file.
